Monthly Archives: December 2009

A New Year’s Resolution

Okay, it’s a day before New Year’s Eve, but I’m giving you a day to think about this.

Resolutions, they say, are made to be broken. Dieting, stopping smoking, exercise more, none of them hold up and we know it. But here’s one that we can strive for every day of our life…

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Rogue’s Yarn (It’s Not a Scalliwag’s Story)

A “Rogue’s Yarn” is a colored yarn of jute laid in a strand of rope to identify what materials are used in the rope’s manufacture.

Naval-grade manila (made from the abaca plant which is grown extensively in the Philipines and was shipped world-wide out of the Port of Manila)  and  is marked with one red yarn in each of two strands. Commercially made manila over 2 inches in circumference is marked as follows: Grade I, ‘Special’, one black rogue’s yarn in three strands; Grade II, ‘Standard’, one black rogue’s yarn in two strands; Grade III, ‘Merchant’, one black rogue’s yarn in one strand.

Commercial sisal (made from the leaves of the Agave sisalana plant) has a red rogue’s yarn while naval sisal has yellow in each of two strands.

Commercial hemp (we all know what plant that comes from) has no rogue’s yarn while naval hemp has red in all three strands.

Coir rope (made from coconut husks)  has one strand marked with a yellow thread.

Originally the yarns were used only in naval rope and the color indicated the ropeyard that made it and it was introduced to stop theft by making it easily recognizable, naval rope being considered superior to all others. Because of that there was a lot of temptation to smuggle the line out of the rope yards and sell it to merchant vessels.

Today different colors are also used in yacht running rigging to identify different sheets, halyards, etc.

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More Playing for Change

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A Neighborhood Light Festival

Have to admit this is pretty cool…

During these economy time, the street of Bainbridge Cir, Murrieta Ca thought we would do something to put a smile on peoples faces. So the block decided to do something different this year for Christmas, we synchronized all 12 houses to music. It came out very impressive and it is a must see as the video does not do it justice. This was a team effort with the entire neighborhood getting involved. It started back in May with a simple discussion on what it would take. Next thing we know it was done. It has really brought the entire neighborhood together. You have to see it to believe it. Check out the YouTube Video
30000 plus lights
130 extension cords
Over 8000 feet of control cable
Programming time: dont ask.
Side Note: Most of the neighborhood uses LED lights this year, so for those concerned we are wasting massive amounts of electricity, we are actually using 1/10th of the power as last year.

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Landfalls and Departures

This will be a relatively long post, but bear with it and you will learn something…

As far as I’m concerned one of the best books ever written about the sea is The Mirror of the Sea by Joseph Conrad. I marvel at Conrad’s use of the English language especially in light of the fact that it’s not his native tongue. Conrad’s real name is Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski. Born in Poland, English was his third language.

Conrad knows whereof he writes as the holder of a Master Mariner’s ticket. The Mirror of the Sea is the closest thing to an autobiography Conrad came up with.

Words, of course, have meaning, and on a ship the words used have specific meanings that relay precise information instantly to all hands. Without that precision lives, in fact the entire ship, can be lost. One can’t say “pull on that line-thingy over there.” You have to tell someone to “haul in the stays’l sheet,” for example. Non-nautical persons can be more cavalier with their use of terminology, of course, and in the following example Conrad clarifies what the words “Landfall” and “Departure” mean to the seaman.

“Landfall and Departure mark the rhythmical swing of a seaman’s life and of a ship’s career.  From land to land is the most concise definition of a ship’s earthly fate.

“A “Departure” is not what a vain people of landsmen may think.  The term “Landfall” is more easily understood; you fall in with the land, and it is a matter of a quick eye and of a clear atmosphere.

The Departure is not the ship’s going away from her port any more than the Landfall can be looked upon as the synonym of arrival. But there is this difference in the Departure: that the term does not imply so much a sea event as a definite act entailing a process–the precise observation of certain landmarks by means of the compass card.

Your Landfall, be it a peculiarly-shaped mountain, a rocky headland, or a stretch of sand-dunes, you meet at first with a single glance.  Further recognition will follow in due course; but essentially a Landfall, good or bad, is made and done with at the first cry of “Land ho!”  The Departure is distinctly a ceremony of navigation.  A ship may have left her port some time before; she may have been at sea, in the fullest sense of the phrase, for days; but, for all that, as long as the coast she was about to leave remained in sight, a southern-going ship of yesterday had not in the sailor’s sense begun the enterprise of a passage.

The taking of Departure, if not the last sight of the land, is, perhaps, the last professional recognition of the land on the part of a sailor.  It is the technical, as distinguished from the sentimental, “good-bye.”  Henceforth he has done with the coast astern of his ship.  It is a matter personal to the man.  It is not the ship that takes her departure; the seaman takes his Departure by means of cross-bearings which fix the place of the first tiny pencil-cross on the white expanse of the track-chart, where the ship’s position at noon shall be marked by just such another tiny pencil cross for every day of her passage.  And there may be sixty, eighty, any number of these crosses on the ship’s track from land to land.  The greatest number in my experience was a hundred and thirty of such crosses from the pilot station at the Sand Heads in the Bay of Bengal to the Scilly’s light.  A bad passage. . .

A Departure, the last professional sight of land, is always good, or at least good enough.  For, even if the weather be thick, it does not matter much to a ship having all the open sea before her bows.  A Landfall may be good or bad.  You encompass the earth with one particular spot of it in your eye.  In all the devious tracings the course of a sailing-ship leaves upon the white paper of a chart she is always aiming for that one little spot–maybe a small island in the ocean, a single headland upon the long coast of a continent, a lighthouse on a bluff, or simply the peaked form of a mountain like an ant-heap afloat upon the waters.  But if you have sighted it on the expected bearing, then that Landfall is good.  Fogs, snowstorms, gales thick with clouds and rain–those are the enemies of good Landfalls.

Some commanders of ships take their Departure from the home coast sadly, in a spirit of grief and discontent.  They have a wife, children perhaps, some affection at any rate, or perhaps only some pet vice, that must be left behind for a year or more.  I remember only one man who walked his deck with a springy step, and gave the first course of the passage in an elated voice.  But he, as I learned afterwards, was leaving nothing behind him, except a welter of debts and threats of legal proceedings.

On the other hand, I have known many captains who, directly their ship had left the narrow waters of the Channel, would disappear from the sight of their ship’s company altogether for some three days or more.  They would take a long dive, as it were, into their state-room, only to emerge a few days afterwards with a more or less serene brow.  Those were the men easy to get on with. Besides, such a complete retirement seemed to imply a satisfactory amount of trust in their officers, and to be trusted displeases no seaman worthy of the name.

On my first voyage as chief mate with good Captain MacW- I remember that I felt quite flattered, and went blithely about my duties, myself a commander for all practical purposes.  Still, whatever the greatness of my illusion, the fact remained that the real commander was there, backing up my self-confidence, though invisible to my eyes behind a maple-wood veneered cabin-door with a white china handle.

That is the time, after your Departure is taken, when the spirit of your commander communes with you in a muffled voice, as if from the sanctum sanctorum of a temple; because, call her a temple or a “hell afloat”–as some ships have been called–the captain’s state- room is surely the august place in every vessel.

The good MacW- would not even come out to his meals, and fed solitarily in his holy of holies from a tray covered with a white napkin.  Our steward used to bend an ironic glance at the perfectly empty plates he was bringing out from there.  This grief for his home, which overcomes so many married seamen, did not deprive Captain MacW- of his legitimate appetite.  In fact, the steward would almost invariably come up to me, sitting in the captain’s chair at the head of the table, to say in a grave murmur, “The captain asks for one more slice of meat and two potatoes.”  We, his officers, could hear him moving about in his berth, or lightly snoring, or fetching deep sighs, or splashing and blowing in his bath-room; and we made our reports to him through the keyhole, as it were.  It was the crowning achievement of his amiable character that the answers we got were given in a quite mild and friendly tone.  Some commanders in their periods of seclusion are constantly grumpy, and seem to resent the mere sound of your voice as an injury and an insult.

But a grumpy recluse cannot worry his subordinates:  whereas the man in whom the sense of duty is strong (or, perhaps, only the sense of self-importance), and who persists in airing on deck his moroseness all day–and perhaps half the night–becomes a grievous infliction.  He walks the poop darting gloomy glances, as though he wished to poison the sea, and snaps your head off savagely whenever you happen to blunder within earshot.  And these vagaries are the harder to bear patiently, as becomes a man and an officer, because no sailor is really good-tempered during the first few days of a voyage.  There are regrets, memories, the instinctive longing for the departed idleness, the instinctive hate of all work.  Besides, things have a knack of going wrong at the start, especially in the matter of irritating trifles.  And there is the abiding thought of a whole year of more or less hard life before one, because there was hardly a southern-going voyage in the yesterday of the sea which meant anything less than a twelvemonth.  Yes; it needed a few days after the taking of your departure for a ship’s company to shake down into their places, and for the soothing deep-water ship routine to establish its beneficent sway.

It is a great doctor for sore hearts and sore heads, too, your ship’s routine, which I have seen soothe–at least for a time–the most turbulent of spirits.  There is health in it, and peace, and satisfaction of the accomplished round; for each day of the ship’s life seems to close a circle within the wide ring of the sea horizon.  It borrows a certain dignity of sameness from the majestic monotony of the sea.  He who loves the sea loves also the ship’s routine.

Nowhere else than upon the sea do the days, weeks and months fall away quicker into the past.  They seem to be left astern as easily as the light air-bubbles in the swirls of the ship’s wake, and vanish into a great silence in which your ship moves on with a sort of magical effect.  They pass away, the days, the weeks, the months.  Nothing but a gale can disturb the orderly life of the ship; and the spell of unshaken monotony that seems to have fallen upon the very voices of her men is broken only by the near prospect of a Landfall.

Then is the spirit of the ship’s commander stirred strongly again. But it is not moved to seek seclusion, and to remain, hidden and inert, shut up in a small cabin with the solace of a good bodily appetite.  When about to make the land, the spirit of the ship’s commander is tormented by an unconquerable restlessness.  It seems unable to abide for many seconds together in the holy of holies of the captain’s state-room; it will out on deck and gaze ahead, through straining eyes, as the appointed moment comes nearer.  It is kept vigorously upon the stretch of excessive vigilance.

Meantime the body of the ship’s commander is being enfeebled by want of appetite; at least, such is my experience, though “enfeebled” is perhaps not exactly the word.  I might say, rather, that it is spiritualized by a disregard for food, sleep, and all the ordinary comforts, such as they are, of sea life.  In one or two cases I have known that detachment from the grosser needs of existence remain regrettably incomplete in the matter of drink.

But these two cases were, properly speaking, pathological cases, and the only two in all my sea experience.  In one of these two instances of a craving for stimulants, developed from sheer anxiety, I cannot assert that the man’s seaman-like qualities were impaired in the least.  It was a very anxious case, too, the land being made suddenly, close-to, on a wrong bearing, in thick weather, and during a fresh onshore gale.  Going below to speak to him soon after, I was unlucky enough to catch my captain in the very act of hasty cork-drawing.  The sight, I may say, gave me an awful scare.  I was well aware of the morbidly sensitive nature of the man.  Fortunately, I managed to draw back unseen, and, taking care to stamp heavily with my sea-boots at the foot of the cabin stairs, I made my second entry.  But for this unexpected glimpse, no act of his during the next twenty-four hours could have given me the slightest suspicion that all was not well with his nerve.

Quite another case, and having nothing to do with drink, was that of poor Captain B-.  He used to suffer from sick headaches, in his young days, every time he was approaching a coast.  Well over fifty years of age when I knew him, short, stout, dignified, perhaps a little pompous, he was a man of a singularly well-informed mind, the least sailor-like in outward aspect, but certainly one of the best seamen whom it has been my good luck to serve under.  He was a Plymouth man, I think, the son of a country doctor, and both his elder boys were studying medicine.  He commanded a big London ship, fairly well known in her day.  I thought no end of him, and that is why I remember with a peculiar satisfaction the last words he spoke to me on board his ship after an eighteen months’ voyage.  It was in the dock in Dundee, where we had brought a full cargo of jute from Calcutta.  We had been paid off that morning, and I had come on board to take my sea-chest away and to say good-bye.  In his slightly lofty but courteous way he inquired what were my plans.  I replied that I intended leaving for London by the afternoon train, and thought of going up for examination to get my master’s certificate.  I had just enough service for that.  He commended me for not wasting my time, with such an evident interest in my case that I was quite surprised; then, rising from his chair, he said:

“Have you a ship in view after you have passed?”

I answered that I had nothing whatever in view.

He shook hands with me, and pronounced the memorable words:

“If you happen to be in want of employment, remember that as long as I have a ship you have a ship, too.”

In the way of compliment there is nothing to beat this from a ship’s captain to his second mate at the end of a voyage, when the work is over and the subordinate is done with.  And there is a pathos in that memory, for the poor fellow never went to sea again after all.  He was already ailing when we passed St. Helena; was laid up for a time when we were off the Western Islands, but got out of bed to make his Landfall.  He managed to keep up on deck as far as the Downs, where, giving his orders in an exhausted voice, he anchored for a few hours to send a wire to his wife and take aboard a North Sea pilot to help him sail the ship up the east coast.  He had not felt equal to the task by himself, for it is the sort of thing that keeps a deep-water man on his feet pretty well night and day.

When we arrived in Dundee, Mrs. B- was already there, waiting to take him home.  We travelled up to London by the same train; but by the time I had managed to get through with my examination the ship had sailed on her next voyage without him, and, instead of joining her again, I went by request to see my old commander in his home.

This is the only one of my captains I have ever visited in that way.  He was out of bed by then, “quite convalescent,” as he declared, making a few tottering steps to meet me at the sitting- room door.  Evidently he was reluctant to take his final cross- bearings of this earth for a Departure on the only voyage to an unknown destination a sailor ever undertakes.  And it was all very nice–the large, sunny room; his deep, easy-chair in a bow window, with pillows and a footstool; the quiet, watchful care of the elderly, gentle woman who had borne him five children, and had not, perhaps, lived with him more than five full years out of the thirty or so of their married life.  There was also another woman there in a plain black dress, quite gray-haired, sitting very erect on her chair with some sewing, from which she snatched side-glances in his direction, and uttering not a single word during all the time of my call.  Even when, in due course, I carried over to her a cup of tea, she only nodded at me silently, with the faintest ghost of a smile on her tight-set lips.  I imagine she must have been a maiden sister of Mrs. B- come to help nurse her brother-in-law.  His youngest boy, a late-comer, a great cricketer it seemed, twelve years old or thereabouts, chattered enthusiastically of the exploits of W. G. Grace.  And I remember his eldest son, too, a newly-fledged doctor, who took me out to smoke in the garden, and, shaking his head with professional gravity, but with genuine concern, muttered:  “Yes, but he doesn’t get back his appetite.  I don’t like that–I don’t like that at all.”  The last sight of Captain B- I had was as he nodded his head to me out of the bow window when I turned round to close the front gate.

It was a distinct and complete impression, something that I don’t know whether to call a Landfall or a Departure.  Certainly he had gazed at times very fixedly before him with the Landfall’s vigilant look, this sea-captain seated incongruously in a deep-backed chair.

He had not then talked to me of employment, of ships, of being ready to take another command; but he had discoursed of his early days, in the abundant but thin flow of a wilful invalid’s talk.

The women looked worried, but sat still, and I learned more of him in that interview than in the whole eighteen months we had sailed together.  It appeared he had “served his time” in the copper-ore trade, the famous copper-ore trade of old days between Swansea and the Chilian coast, coal out and ore in, deep-loaded both ways, as if in wanton defiance of the great Cape Horn seas–a work, this, for staunch ships, and a great school of staunchness for West- Country seamen.  A whole fleet of copper-bottomed barques, as strong in rib and planking, as well-found in gear, as ever was sent upon the seas, manned by hardy crews and commanded by young masters, was engaged in that now long defunct trade.  “That was the school I was trained in,” he said to me almost boastfully, lying back amongst his pillows with a rug over his legs.  And it was in that trade that he obtained his first command at a very early age.

It was then that he mentioned to me how, as a young commander, he was always ill for a few days before making land after a long passage.  But this sort of sickness used to pass off with the first sight of a familiar landmark.  Afterwards, he added, as he grew older, all that nervousness wore off completely; and I observed his weary eyes gaze steadily ahead, as if there had been nothing between him and the straight line of sea and sky, where whatever a seaman is looking for is first bound to appear.  But I have also seen his eyes rest fondly upon the faces in the room, upon the pictures on the wall, upon all the familiar objects of that home, whose abiding and clear image must have flashed often on his memory in times of stress and anxiety at sea.  Was he looking out for a strange Landfall, or taking with an untroubled mind the bearings for his last Departure?

It is hard to say; for in that voyage from which no man returns Landfall and Departure are instantaneous, merging together into one moment of supreme and final attention. . .”

The entire book is available, free, here…

http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext97/tmots10.txt


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Truth VS Reality

A while back I was, I’m ashamed to say, eating at a fast-food establishment that sold “food” other than burgers. As I was eating my “meal” there was a young man making a scene at the counter. He had a distinct English accent and was complaining that what he had purchased didn’t look like the photo on the display from which you make your selection. He demanded that the minimum-wage drones who slap the slop together make him a product that looked exactly like the picture. This loudly went on for quite some time while the queue of hungry potential customers grew behind him. Finally the manager gave the complainent his money back and told him to take his “meal” with him gratis.

Of course what comes across the counter only vaguely resembles those luscious photos. Here’s what we’re inticed by and what we really receive.

And the reason why they aren’t the same…

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Even Insects Love PD Racers

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Learning Something New

It’s a bad, sad day when you don’t learn something new…

Today I learned you can’t wash your cell phone at the laundrymat.

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Another Dylan Winter Video

It’s been too long since I’ve posted anything nautical here. I get caught up so easily in the music I love. It’s appropriate that I go back to Dylan Winter and his trip around England in a 19′ sailboat.  Here he is taking off for another leg of his trip early on what looks to be a chilly morning. Getting underway is always one of the delightful parts of boating. Cutting loose from the land. Getting the boat back into its natural element and original purpose. The anticipation of the adventures to come, and those adventures don’t have to be high winds and heavy seas.  Adventure can come simply and quietly exploring quiet secluded gunkholes and those moments are often the most memorable.

You might notice that as he’s departing the port he’s leaving the red markers to starboard. The Brits don’t use the “red right returning” rule of the U.S. but then again those buggers drive on the wrong side of the road, too.

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Filed under adventure, cruising, Microcruising, Sail, sailboats

Is it better to be lost at sea or found at work?

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